The Silver Rose (34 page)

Esmee’s face clouded over. “That is, until the spring my husband was caught in a rainstorm and took a chill. It was one of those inexplicable tragedies. A man so hale and hearty one day and the next stricken with fever, his lungs so congested with pneumonia, none of my ancient remedies could save him. He—he died on a soft May morning when the roses were just beginning to bud.”

Her eyes misted and she blinked fiercely. “My husband had no other living relatives except for a nephew, his sister’s son. Marcellus was scarce cold in his grave when Robert swooped in, assuming that my husband could not have left his valuable property to a mere woman and that ‘idiot boy,’ as he called my sweet Yves.

“Yves may—may not be the cleverest lad, but he is not an idiot. That is a far better description of Robert, the sniveling bastard.” Esmee broke off, her cheeks going pink. “Um—I am sorry, milady.”

“Don’t apologize. From what I saw of Yves, he possesses something rarer and more valuable than cleverness. He is rich in the gifts of the heart. I have never met this Robert, but I would be inclined to call him a bastard myself.”

Esmee smiled gratefully at her, an oddly endearing gap-toothed grin. She drew in a deep breath and continued, “Robert was prepared to
generously
allow me and Yves to remain in one of the cottages on the estate while he took over the vineyard and countinghouse. Imagine his outrage when he found that my husband had been wise enough to leave a will, clearly naming myself and Yves as his heirs.

“Robert could have contested the will in the courts and he might well have won, but that would have been costly and time-consuming. He found a swifter and surer means to get his hands on the property. I was known throughout our community as a skilled midwife, well versed in many of the ancient herbal medicines. I had often butted heads with the local physician over some of his ignorant remedies, so it was an easy matter for Robert to—to—”

“To have you charged with witchcraft,” Miri finished grimly.

“I need hardly explain to you, my dear, that it is the risk all wise women run for displaying any unusual abilities. No real proof is ever required, the suspicion alone enough to get a woman convicted. When I heard that the dread Le Balafre had arrived to assist in my interrogation, I completely despaired. Not so much for myself, but for my poor Yves, wondering what would become of him when I was gone.

“My courage entirely failed me when I was dragged before Le Balafre. As I looked up into that scarred face, I trembled, scarce daring to stare into that single dark, unrelenting eye, expecting to find a devil lurking there.”

Esmee smiled, shaking her head in remembered wonder. “What I found was a man of reason and extraordinary perception. Monsieur Aristide saw through my nephew’s plot at once. But Robert had so much support from the local authorities, not even Le Balafre could bring a halt to the proceedings. The best he could do was to spirit me and Yves away.

“I lost all my property, my entire estate except for a few belongings I managed to snatch up before Yves and I fled. After arranging our escape, Simon brought us here to live and that is where we have been ever since, Yves helping out on the farm where he is able and me employed as Monsieur Aristide’s chatelaine, although it pleases him to honor me with the title of steward.”

“A position of great trust for a woman,” Miri said.

“A position of great trust for
anyone.
I share the responsibilities with old Jacques, who manages the stable and the livestock. He once worked as head groom for one of the larger inns in Paris until he was deemed too old and turned off. Monsieur Aristide is a great one for offering people a second chance.”

“Everyone but himself,” Miri reflected softly.

“Ah, so you have noticed that about the man, have you?”

“Oh yes, and whenever you ask him why he helps anyone, he shrugs off the question, pretending it was in his interest to do so.”

“I know. He actually tried to convince me that I had done
him
a favor. That rescuing me helped him to make atonement for past sins.” The woman cast an uneasy glance at Miri. “From what I could read in his eyes, he was thinking of you, the destruction he wrought upon Faire Isle.”

Miri rested her chin upon her hands, her brow furrowed as she considered Esmee’s remark. “That might also explain why he let my friend Marie Claire escape, if Simon feels the need to make reparation,” she mused, more to herself than Esmee. “Simon very likely believes himself that that is what he is doing.”

Esmee eyed her curiously. “But you don’t?”

“I don’t think his motives are that simple.” Miri traced her finger around the rim of her cup, struggling as she had been doing for days. To sort through all the contradictions that were Simon Aristide, make some sense of the man.

She said hesitantly, “I think Simon’s actions have as much to do with the boy he once was before his family and village were destroyed. Before that monster Le Vis sought to remake Simon into the infamous Le Balafre, a mold so against Simon’s nature, it nearly destroyed him.”

Miri spread her hands in a helpless gesture as she sought the words to explain. “Simon is a man whose life has been shattered more than once and it is as though he has been left with all these broken pieces of himself and he is desperately trying to fit them back together.”

“A task he must accomplish for himself, but the love and understanding of the right woman would help.” Esmee flustered Miri by arching one eyebrow at her suggestively.

“Oh no, madame,” she stammered. “Whatever you are thinking, that woman isn’t me.”

“Isn’t it? Your eyes tell me differently, my dear.”

Miri’s cheeks warmed. “No matter what I might feel for Simon, that we should ever be together is impossible. Not after some of the things he has done, especially the raid on Faire Isle. I—I might be able to forgive him for that, but my family never could.”

“Most women are governed by their families, their marriages arranged. But wise women have often been more fortunate in that regard, able to follow their own hearts, particularly the ladies of Faire Isle.”

“That might be true for my sisters, but it cannot be for me. There is far too much bad blood between Simon and my family, especially my brother-in-law, Renard. Although Simon has sworn to me that he will never draw sword upon Renard again and I am sure Ariane could make Renard—”

Miri paused, considering the possibilities. Perhaps if her family learned how Simon had saved Esmee and protected the Maitlands, they might—

Miri checked her wistful imaginings with a sad shake of her head.

“No, it is quite hopeless,” she said to remind herself of that as much as Esmee. “Simon considers Renard an evil sorcerer, and Renard loathes witch-hunters. And even if I could persuade Ariane that Simon has changed, Gabrielle would never believe it. As much as my family loves me, I don’t think any of them could ever learn to—to be fond of Simon or accept him.”

“Families don’t always have to dote upon one another, child. If they don’t stick forks into each other at the supper table, sometimes that is all one can ask.” Esmee reached across the table to give Miri’s hand a gentle squeeze. “My own parents were not fond of Marcellus either, but they came round in the end. I am sure your sisters love you enough, they could do the same.”

Miri smiled sadly. “Even if that were true, there is a greater obstacle between me and Simon and that is the man himself. He shies away from any kind of tenderness. How could I offer my heart to a man who considers his affection for me a weakness?”

“It is up to you to teach him otherwise.” Esmee rose briskly to her feet. “We should begin by getting you cleaned up and into some more womanly attire. None of my clothes will fit you, but I am sure we can find you a gown amongst one of the women—”

“No, madame, please, I couldn’t—”

“You can and will,” Esmee said firmly. The old lady added with a slightly wicked twinkle in her eyes. “I am sure that masculine garb of yours is mighty comfortable, but you are not going to get anywhere with Master Simon until you shed your breeches.”

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER
Miri wandered across the stable yard, the skirt of the light wool gown swirling about her ankles. It was a little small for her, lacing tightly across her bosom, but it was dyed the softest hue of blue, as though she had draped herself in a piece of sky.

Miri nervously smoothed her fingers down the folds, thinking she should never have accepted the loan of the gown, fearing that she was only encouraging Esmee Pascale’s matchmaking urges. But now that her identity was known, she could hardly continue to strut around in masculine garb, Miri reasoned. For propriety’s sake, that was the only reason she had capitulated, Miri tried to tell herself.

That didn’t explain this foolish fluttery sensation inside her, the same one she’d experienced as a young girl when she had donned her best frock, determined to make Simon take notice of her, stop seeing her as a child. Feeling absurdly self-conscious, she raised her hand to check the ribbon that held back her unbraided hair, spilling loose down her back. As she did so, her fingers brushed against her neck, making her guiltily aware of what was missing.

Martin’s locket. She had removed it when she had bathed and forgotten to—. No, if she was honest, she had to admit that she had deliberately left the locket on the small table near the ewer and basin. No matter what else happened, she knew she was going to have to return it to him and she dreaded the pain she must cause her dear friend.

As Miri crossed the yard, she was startled when Yves suddenly came bursting out of the stables, looking distraught. The boy stumbled to a halt when he spied her and Miri expected him to turn shy as he’d done before.

But he bolted up to her, tugging at her hand. “Oh, Wood’s Lady. You must come at once. Master Simon needs you. There is no one else. Jacques had to go herd the sheep in and one of the lambs has gone missing so he had to take Bertrand to help and there’s only me left—”

“Yves, please.” Miri gently pressed her hands to his lips to stop the frantic rush of words. “Just tell me what is wrong. Has—has something happened to Simon?”

“No!” The boy looked ready to burst into tears. “It’s Melda. She’s having her calf and it’s all gone wrong.”

Miri rushed into the barn to find Simon already there. Stripped to the waist, he lay in the straw beside a brown spotted cow, clearly in a state of distress. Flecked with blood and dirt, his arm buried deep inside the cow, he grimaced as her contractions tightened on his arm. But he looked considerably relieved at the sight of Miri.

“Simon. What’s wrong?”

He grunted. “The calf is not presenting right. Its head is turned clear around and there is barely any room at all. It’s set now to come out legs first.”

He didn’t have to explain to her what that meant. If the calf came out legs first, the cow’s pelvis could be crushed. Both mother and calf could be lost.

“I am trying to get a rope around the calf, so I can turn the head.”

Miri nodded. She didn’t think twice, unlacing the bodice of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders, stripping down to her chemise despite Yves’s wide-eyed stare. She crouched down beside Simon.

“Here, let me do that. My arm is smaller.”

“And more likely to get crushed.” Simon winced as another contraction hit, the cow’s pelvis tightening on his arm. “I can do this. I—I just need you to hold the end of the rope and pull when I tell you.”

Miri knelt beside him, wiping the sweat from Simon’s face as he tried to inch his arm deeper inside the straining cow. Yves hovered nearby, wringing his large hands as the moments crawled by. Miri watched Simon’s efforts anxiously, but she had little hope. Even with all her skills with animals, she knew that calves in this position were usually born dead. It would be a miracle if they did not lose the mother too.

Simon clenched his teeth and pushed with everything he had. His grim expression lightened a little as he panted, “All right. I—I think I have the noose secure around the calf. If you pull on the rope, I am going to push the calf and the head should come round.”

Miri did as he bade her, seizing hold of the end of the rope, maintaining a steady tension. Simon’s face quickened with excitement. “Miri, I think the head is turning. Keep pulling.”

Simon withdrew his arm to help her, the pair of them working in unison until the calf emerged, first the head, the rest of it following swiftly. Yves fairly danced in his delight, but his face crumpled as the little animal lay motionless on the stable floor.

“Oh, M-master Simon. It’s dead.”

“No,” Miri said, refusing to give up. She cleared the calf’s mouth and blew down its throat. Following her lead, Simon applied pressure on the ribs. The calf gasped, jerking its leg.

They both fell back, exhausted, laughing with relief, Yves joining in. Simon grasped the calf and lifted it toward its mother. The cow wearily raised its head, snuffling her babe. All exhaustion forgotten, she licked her calf. The little creature stretched its neck and tried to wobble to its feet.

Miri had witnessed this miracle many times before and it never failed to move her. But she had never had anyone to share her feelings with until now. As her gaze met Simon’s, she saw this was one magic he understood as well as she. He reached out to grasp her hand, the silent communication that passed between them deeper than any words.